The Institute Read online

  Legend Press Ltd, 51 Gower Street, London, WC1E 6HJ

  [email protected] | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Jakub Żulczyk 2016

  In agreement with Author’s Syndicate Script & Lit Agency

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  The Institute was first published in the Polish language under the title Instytut by ŚWIAT KSIĄŻKI Publishing House in 2016.

  This English edition of The Institute was arranged via Red Rock Literary Agency Ltd.

  Print ISBN 978-1-78955-8-999

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-78955-9-002

  Set in Times. Printing managed by Jellyfish Solutions Ltd

  Cover design by Simon Levy | www.simonlevy.co.uk

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Jakub Żulczyk is a rising star of the Eastern European literature scene.

  His 2014 novel Blinded by the Lights was adapted into a TV series by HBO Europe and listed as one of the best TV shows made in Europe in 2018.

  He is a successful screenwriter as well as the author of the bestselling Polish novels Do Me Some Harm, Radio Armageddon, Hound Hill and Black Sun.

  Follow Jakub on IG

  @jakubzulczyk

  Danusia Stok is a freelance translator of interviews, novels, short stories and film scripts. She has translated, among others, works by Krzysztof Kieślowski & Krzysztof Piesiewicz, Andrzej Sapkowski, Marek Krajewski, Mariusz Wilk, Grażyna Plebanek and Jacek Dukaj, and compiled, translated and edited Kieślowski on Kieślowski. She lives in London.

  Whoever you are.

  My name is Agnieszka, and the Institute is my apartment. Twelve hours ago, I became a prisoner here. Nobody can go out. Nobody can come in.

  The Institute is on the fifth floor, at the top of a pre-war tenement on one of the main thoroughfares of Cracow. The address: 20 Mickiewicz Avenue. It measures one hundred and thirty square metres, has four bedrooms and, as do most of the apartments, a kitchen, a toilet and a bathroom.

  There is a large living area, at least in theory. When couples boasted that they had two rooms, my “one hundred metres” gave rise to envious tutting, enquiries and taunts, such as: “Ride around on a bike in here, do you?” But it seems to me that space doesn’t mean all that much when you’re locked in. A cell is always a cell.

  The name “The Institute” was on the entryphone when I first came to look at the apartment. I asked the solicitor who was viewing it with me, why Institute, and why was that up there instead of my grandmother’s name – what kind of Institute? She had no idea. Later, once I’d moved in, the administrator asked whether I wanted them to change the tag beneath the entryphone to one with my name on it. I said no. I thought it’d be easier that way. I wouldn’t have to drum my name and the number of the apartment into the heads of those intending to visit me. It’ll be enough to say “phone the Institute,” I thought, presuming I’d meet people in Cracow who’d want to visit me.

  Very soon, I wished there were far fewer visitors. When mentioning my apartment, people said “to the Institute”, “in the Institute”, “from the Institute”, “at the Institute”, “not far from the Institute”. That’s what they said, people who popped in for a coffee, people who came a little more often and then moved in, people who visited those who’d already moved in. There are hundreds of apartments on Aleje Trzech Wieszczόw. Tens, hundreds of thousands in the whole of Cracow. And so, “the Institute” simply became the Institute. When that happened – and I can’t say exactly when – I realised that I really didn’t want the Institute to be just an ordinary apartment that belonged to Agnieszka Celińska, like those belonging to or rented by the Nowaks, Paprockis, Daszyńskis, Malickis, Dawidowskis. Even when there were forty half-comatose people still doggedly together on Monday at eight in the morning and I had to be at work in two hours, I didn’t want it to become any old apartment.

  But now, the Institute is no longer an asylum; in fact, it’s the opposite – it’s a trap.

  We can’t leave the Institute. That is, we can, but only to go to the landing. On the landing, to the left, is an old wooden lift with a two-winged door. Next to the lift is a stairway leading downwards, which is sealed off by a massive pre-war grating with densely set struts twisted into Art Nouveau knots. The grating has always been open, but now it’s fastened with two locks. I haven’t got keys to the locks. Mrs Finkiel, my neighbour, might have some. Opposite our door, on the other side of the lift and stairs, is the door to her apartment. Mrs Finkiel can’t or doesn’t want to open it for us. Or else she’s not in. The lift has always worked, but now it doesn’t.

  Our phones aren’t working. We can’t get the internet. We’re in the very centre of Cracow yet cut off from the world.

  We call the people who’ve locked us in ‘They’. In a way, that’s how they introduced themselves. A few hours ago, we’d found a sheet of squared paper on the doormat, torn out of an exercise book, with THIS IS OUR APARTMENT scribbled on it in gory red letters.

  We don’t know who ‘They’ are. ‘They’ could be our neighbours. Could be somebody one of us knew a long time ago and hurt: ex-girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, family members. ‘They’ could be some psychopaths like those who pick a random mobile number and harass you for a month, calling at three in the morning and threatening to burn your house down. ‘They’ could be the tenement’s administration. Could be the police. Owners of the vegetable stall opposite. The strange group of people in worn-out suits holding leather pouches and clearly well-used paper files, whom we passed in the street a couple of days ago. We haven’t a clue.

  Now all we can do is wait, sitting or pacing the apartment. There are seven of us: Veronica, Iga, me, Sebastian, Jacek and two of Veronica’s friends, Robert and Anna.

  We move from room to room to dilute the feeling of being imprisoned at least a little, but instead of fading, it grows by the second, enters every strand of every muscle like a turbocharged tumour. We feel it most when we stand still, gripped by a rustling, a sound or banging outside. We wait a few seconds, peer out onto the stairwell, look out of the window at the street. But none of these sounds has, as yet, turned into anything concrete. They’re just ordinary sounds, echoes from a world from which we’ve been cut off. All that’s left is for us to go back inside, sit down, get up, light and extinguish cigarettes, boil water for yet more tea, turn the water on, turn it off, take our clothes off and put them on – over and over and over again.

  We’ve calculated that we got locked in on Sunday at about ten in the evening. It’s possible that we were locked in as early as the afternoon, but nobody can say for sure because of the day it was. Sunday at the Institute was a day of exhausted shuffling to the bathroom, throwing out the last of Saturday’s wrecked bodies, eating pizza together in the evening, watching a stream of hopeless programmes about actors from Polish serials and Polish singers dancing, singing and doing handstands. Sunday was a day when it took half an hour to muster up the energy to run a bath, let alone leave the apartment. Sunday was a day usually forgotten.

  The previous day, Iga and I had
stood behind the bar of the Ugly Cat, a popular drinking hole not far from the Main Square. Papa, the owner, let us go home at half past nine, when the sad remnants of Saturday night were still knocking around. Comatose forty-year-old women who looked like prostitutes from an ’80s Polish film stood on the counter, dancing to “Lambada” as it spun over and over again. Sebastian, Yogi and Papa cleared artists forgotten by the world – unemployed musicians, unpublished poets and art students, their heads on tables, faces in ashtrays. The floor was covered with a crunchy and slippery blanket of mud, slush and fag ends. We left as a threesome – me, Iga and Sebastian, holding on to the walls from exhaustion. Papa rewarded our trooper’s stance with a bottle of wine each. If it weren’t for it being December and several degrees below zero, we probably wouldn’t have made it home and would have fallen asleep on a bench in Planty. Dragging ourselves along Karmelicka Street like a procession on diazepam, we finally reached the Institute, crashed onto our beds and lost consciousness.

  As we were drifting off, I could hear some sort of gathering going on in Gypsy’s room: Jacek was talking loudly to a group of gabbling young individuals whose voices I didn’t recognise, and who were talking about some clever plans to throw yoghurt at minicabs and set fire to the bus stop.

  Apart from Veronica, we were all still asleep at ten in the evening. Veronica had visitors, the same ones as the previous Sunday as it turned out: Robert and Anna. They’re the ones who discovered it was impossible to leave.

  I was just trying to get up when Veronica came in.

  “Agnieszka, something strange has happened,” she said.

  I threw aside my duvet and our two cats, Black and White, got up and plodded to the door. I had to squint even though the apartment was in semi-darkness. My mouth was swollen and painful, as though I’d tried to swallow five glasses of sand. Some unidentified blunt instrument was thumping rhythmically within my skull. Veronica showed me the piece of paper she’d found. I took it and brought it up to my nose like an old woman trying to decipher a phone bill.

  “It was on the doormat.” She pointed to the expanse beyond the open front door. “Come on. Maybe you know what’s going on.”

  “This is our apartment,” I read once aloud and several times silently.

  I do several things here, in Cracow: make-up for television productions, and interior decorating, but mainly I work behind the bar of the Ugly Cat every other evening. Like all bar staff, I drink staunchly on the job. A barperson works twelve-hour shifts on average and in that time drinks small beers and the occasional vodka with friends, then finally gets blind drunk when it’s time to knock off. It takes a diabolically inhuman effort the following day to focus on even simple sentences.

  Besides, I’m thirty-five, and deep down believe I’m getting to be an old woman. I find it harder and harder to live the life of a twenty-year-old with impunity and still function. I get out of breath. Find it harder to tolerate alcohol. Need more sleep. My back aches just standing too long or sitting.

  In short, I had to concentrate very hard to understand what Veronica was saying and showing me.

  “Veronica, somebody’s made a mistake.” It didn’t surprise me that instead of my own voice, I heard something between an angle grinder and a dying blues singer.

  “Come to the landing with me.” Veronica beckoned with her arm.

  Her friends were standing on the landing: a slim, tall, crooked lad in a long women’s cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses, and a petite blonde wrapped in an over-stretched T-shirt and leggings with the logo of a washed-out rainbow on them, her face and hands the colour of old porcelain.

  “Okay, so someone’s taking the piss,” I said, squinting as though we were all on a beach on an August afternoon. Back to bed, I still thought at the time. Under the duvet. Sleep.

  “We can’t get out,” replied Veronica. “The lift’s not working and the grating’s down. They’ve locked us in.”

  “Who’s ‘They’?” I asked.

  Veronica showed me the piece of paper again, and again I read: “This is our apartment.”

  I came to my senses – enough to realise that my feet were getting cold. I was standing barefoot on the unheated landing.

  I waved for them all to go back inside with me, returned to my room and slowly rummaged in a big pile of clothes for my phone. It wouldn’t turn on. I began to search for my charger but realised it might take an hour to find. I made my way to Iga’s room. She was sleeping on her stomach in her clothes, her head hanging dolefully over the edge of the bed; she looked as though she’d crashed onto her bed from several floors up.

  “Iga, somebody’s locked the grating to the stairs and left a crazy note on the doormat,” I said.

  Iga raised her head a couple of centimetres, opened one eye, choked out a hoarse “Oh my God” and got up. I handed her the letter from the doormat.

  “It’s Gypsy’s friends.” She shook her head. “They do things like that. They once nicked the keys to the bar on somebody’s birthday and locked everyone in.”

  “They mustn’t come here again,” I said quietly. “We’ll print their photos and stick them to the street door.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right.” Iga nodded. She stood up, passed me, shuffled along the corridor and started to thump her fists on the glass of Jacek’s door. “Gypsy!” she yelled. “Phone your moron friends and tell them they’re totally not funny.”

  After a good minute, Jacek, known in the Institute as Gypsy, opened the door. He resembled a piece of paper that had been crumpled and then flattened. We pointed to the front door. Slowly, shuffling past us, he went out to the landing. I stood in the doorway. Gypsy shook the grating once, twice, three times.

  “It’s anything but funny.” Iga stood, hands on hips.

  “It’s not my friends.” Gypsy shook his head.

  “Of course it’s not. It’s my mum.”

  “I don’t know where they’d have got the keys to the grating if we’ve never had them.” Gypsy ran his hand along the bars, then walked up to the lift. Pressed the button once, twice, three times.

  “It’s not working,” said Veronica.

  “Strange if it did.” He shrugged.

  “A guy came to fix it yesterday.” Iga approached the lift door and started to press the button in vain. “He caught me as I was coming back from the shop and spent half an hour showing me how it zips up and down like a Pendolino. Those were his words. ‘Zips up and down like a Pendolino.’”

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Veronica’s friend asked:

  “Does this often happen?”

  “Every week. It’s a tradition,” replied Gypsy. The girl didn’t even glance at him. She kept staring at the lift button. There was an uninhabited wilderness in her eyes.

  “No, no, it doesn’t,” I replied after a while. I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t. I just motioned at them to go back in. “Iga, give me the phone,” I said. “I’ll phone admin and ask them to open the grating.”

  Iga retreated to her room and returned with the phone and charger.

  “Odd.” She handed it to me. “It won’t turn on.”

  The phone was out. The logo of a bitten apple and several dots ending in the symbol of a cable appeared on the screen. Gypsy took the phone from me.

  “It’s down.”

  “I’ll get mine,” I said.

  My iPhone was missing its SIM card. I took Iga’s charger, plugged the phone to power and tried to turn it on. An apple appeared on the screen, dots, charger symbol, dumb and stubborn. It was an instant sobering. Like bumping into a police patrol at four in the morning when you’ve got a bag of weed in your pocket, like driving into a car parked in front of you.

  I showed Iga the screen, leaned against the wall and realised I felt scared. I wanted whoever was playing this joke on us to call it a day then and there, open the grating, come in and tell us we were on candid camera. And they’d better have some alcohol with them, good food and sweets.

  “Calm down, cal
m down.” Gypsy scratched his head and kneaded his face like it was made of plasticine; he gave the impression of being nailed to the ground in order to keep from falling. “You were at work, had a lot to drink… somebody’s playing a trick on you. Or you fiddled with the grating yourselves.”

  “But why?” I said.

  “I’ve no idea.” Gypsy shrugged.

  “Get your phone, Gypsy.” Iga tried to speak as calmly as she could.

  Sebastian emerged from his room and stood in the middle of the hallway. Wearing nothing but his tracksuit bottoms with the Banda company’s name printed in Gothic letters on the left leg, he looked hard but fragile.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Somebody’s playing a trick on us,” I answered.

  Sebastian scratched his head, ran his eyes over Robert, who, seeing him, had shrunk about ten centimetres, and said:

  “I’ll fucking kill him. As soon as I’ve had some coffee.”

  Robert startled, as though he’d been mildly electrocuted.

  “Not you, pit bull.” Sebastian patted him on the shoulder and went to the kitchen. Right then, Gypsy reappeared, holding his phone, an old Nokia. I never knew whether he used it through noble self-denial or because he’d coldly calculated that it would make him look hip; this collection of unknowns constituted his entire being.

  In fact, he’d brought only half the phone: no battery, no SIM card, no back flap.

  “Have you turned your laptops on?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  “There’s no network. It’s not picking up any networks,” Gypsy said and sat on the floor. “They wouldn’t have thought of anything like this. Those friends of mine.” He got up and sat on the couch and started kneading his face with his hands again. “Fuck me, I’d give a kidney for some coffee.”

  “None left!” Sebastian shouted from the kitchen. “Want some chai?”

  Iga disappeared into her room. A moment later, she ran back down the hallway and swung by my room, but then returned and rested against the wall, trying to catch her breath.